Face to Face with Grover Cleveland
by kabensi
Summary: FutureBrittana. Britt's an EMT, Santana's in education. Basically 1000 words of fluff.


"Okay, what about..." Puck swipes his thumb across the screen of his phone, flipping to the next page of the app. "The Gazelle and the Stallion."

"Please. We did that in high school. And then Santana's thing broke in half. She was so sad."

"Her thing? Oh shit, you two were already using sex toys back then?"

"Senior year, yeah."

"How do you break one?"

"By online shopping at SuperDildoDiscountPlus and working your way through the kama sutra."

Puck almost spits out his root beer float across the dash of the ambulance, but Brittany just shrugs and sips her own float through the straw. There's only an hour left of their shift and she just wants to go home.

No offense to Puck and his super fun apps.

"I guess it's not that crazy of an idea. If I hadn't been blessed with the Puckasaurus Junior at birth, I would have probably gone out to buy one by then."

"Yeah, but then it would be really creepy when you hit on moms at the PTA meetings, because you wouldn't have a kid in school."

"I still can't believe she's in the sixth grade." Puck closes the app and opens up his photo gallery to a picture of a blonde eleven year old with several planets on the table in front of her. "This is her science project. Or it will be. Shelby emailed me a detailed list of the planets so we make sure to get them in the right order, but Beth already knew it."

"Makes sense. Quinn always remembers random shit, like the last time you pissed her off and when women were first allowed to vote." Brittany flips down the sunshade to block the setting sun from her eyes. Even though she's also wearing sunglasses, it's a direct shot and it sucks. "I think I fed a rabbit Pez for my sixth grade science project."

"How'd that-"

She slumps in her seat. "Santana doesn't like when I talk about it because it depresses me."

"How's the kid?"

That's enough to perk her right back up. "I think she can read."

"Britt, she's two."

"So?"

"She can barely talk."

"So?"

"What does she read?"

"Whatever she wants. Her books. Sam's comics. The Wall Street Journal. She picks them up and she reads. I mean, I don't know what she's saying because she doesn't speak English, but she's doing something."

Puck just nods and starts up the ambulance. By the time they head back to the station, it'll be time to head home.

Brittany can tell her fellow EMT thinks she's out of her mind. It's a look she's been able to identify since she was a kid. It happens a lot and she learned early on to just accept that not everyone knows as much as she does about things.

It's weird to think that's it's already been nearly three years since she and Santana sat down with Sam and asked him to "shoot it in a cup" so they could have a kid together. They weren't even sure if he'd want to, but Sam's always been a good guy and he was Brittany's Man of Honor at their wedding, so he was always their first choice.

Before she heads home, she sends a text to her wife to find out if she needs to stop by Sam's to pick up Penny, because Santana had to work today. The response informs her that there's no need for that and that she should just get her "sweet ass home" so that's exactly what she does.

On the drive, Brittany spends a lot of time wondering if she could get people to start using the semaphore flag system again, because it looks fun.

"San?" She drops into the big armchair in the living room and unlaces her clunky work boots. Freeing her feet at the end of a workday is one of her favorite simple pleasures. Oprah says those are important.

"Ask me about tariff reform," lulls a voice from the hallway.

Brittany turns to see Santana dressed in an old fashioned suit, as in really old fashioned, except it's tailored to fit every curve of her body. "Who are you today?"

Santana's already across the living room and in front of Brittany. "Cleveland."

"I don't remember the city having a rack like that last time we visited."

"The president, babe." Knees settle on either side of Brittany's lap as her wife climbs into the chair with her.

"I would have learned a lot more if we'd had substitute teachers like you in high school."

"We did and she was Holly Holliday and she definitely didn't help you remember anything other than that she was the top of your Bangin' Educators Wish List for the longest time."

Brittany responds by wrapping her hand around the tie that's now right in front of her and pulls Santana in for a kiss. "You're on top, now."

"Damn right."

"Where's Penny?"

"Napping."

"You think we have time for-"

"Hi, Mama!" squeaks a small voice, and then small feet patter against the carpet until a little girl hoists herself up onto the arm of the chair and worms her way between the two women.

"Nope," Santana says to Brittany, then leans back a little to make more room for Penny.

Tiny fingers leave prints across the silver name badge that reads "Lopez" before they dig into the pocket of Brittany's uniform shirt. "Do you have candy?"

"_Aye, niña._ No candy until after dinner."

Penny pouts and looks up at Brittany with big brown eyes, that are just as irresistible from the little girl as they are from her mother. Still, she stays strong. "You heard Mami. After dinner. I don't have any in my pocket, anyway. I ate it all."

"This is where she learns it."

"You're the one who taught her to fill her purse with breadsticks because they're unlimited."

"Is that your way of saying you're taking us out?"

"I'm not getting out of this chair for anything."

"Anything?"

"Almost anything."

Specifically, two things.

One is dinner. The other is a makeshift history lesson after their daughter is sound asleep.

And even though Brittany slept through a lot of her high school classes, she's pretty sure there wasn't anything about any presidents doing any variation of Climbing the Tree.


End file.
